Admitting the Impossible
by nalini
Summary: She finally admits her love only to see that he hadn't really heard.
1. Telling Him

Telling Him (1)

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" The gentle but serious tone of his voice scared me. "Why did you wait until now? Why not earlier? _Lots_ earlier?" his eyes flashed and his words began to run over and into each other; I could tell the drinks were starting to take effect.

"What did you expect?" I said angrily. "I told you ten years ago, thousands of times before that. What am I supposed to do? Keep telling you?" Tears started to form in the bottom of my eyes, temporarily blinding me; they stung as I tried to hold them back, a tremor breaking through my voice. "I met you when I was in fifth grade and for five _years,_ I liked you; just _liked_ you! That's a long time! Then somehow, I began to love you; I don't even know when. When did you expect me to tell you? All those times starting that we _didn't_ have privacy? Those times when we fought? When our parents or sisters or brothers were around?"

The harsh reality of it was sinking in; I was telling him everything I should have told him, except at the worst possible time—there he was: the night before his ring ceremony, three days away from getting married, and I was admitting that I _loved_ him?

Silence.

"Are you…okay?" I asked timidly, seeing the cloudiness beginning to take over his eyes.

"Yeah," he responded, words beginning to slur together. He closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples, massaging them to soothe the battle going on in his head to stay alert. I was ten years old when I met this man; he was just a boy then. And look at him now—5'8" with a voice filled with a love for life and passion—the same passion I could see in his chocolate-brown pools that he called eyes—and a physique that would seem frail on anyone else, but complimented the rest of him perfectly. I had gone from friendship to love to almost a marriage proposal. Instead of telling him all of this before, I waited until he was drunk, the night of his bachelor party.

_ How typically stupid of you; pick the worst possible time to tell him the one thing that could change your life more than anything else ever will._

The edge to his voice jarred me back to reality. "Why?" he whispered as I felt his body begin to sag when I reached for his hand—the same hand that shook mine or was wrapped lightly around my waist time and time again, completely casually. But, instead of it feeling causal like any touch, his touch, how ever slight it was, felt like a current running through me. It would instantly cure any pain of mine—emotional or physical— however small. And after his wedding, what would happen?

_ You still have a chance,_ I said to myself.

"I—I—I'm sorry…." I broke off, unable to say anything more. I wanted to reach out and stroke the face that looked like it had come from a cherub . I shook my head, guilt beginning to take over. I wanted to comfort him, tell him it was okay— to get married and to forget about me. But I could not; _this_ was my last chance.

"I wanted to tell you earlier—honest," I inhaled deeply, unable to continue. "The time was never right," _of course it was!_ I told myself. Think about the millions of opportunities, your senior prom, and the nights he took you to clubs, when you went to visit him at home, the times when he stayed at your house, the phone conversations you had shared almost every other week. There were so many opportunities in the past twelve years. The possibility of rejection had always scared me off but not now—somehow, I had overcome it to tell him tonight.

_ Is it right now? To put myself through hell?_ I realized that wasn't why I was so scared anymore. There was the possibility of ruining his life.

I started asking—_won't this ruin his wedding, even his life? Won't it make him live with the guilt of denying you this for the rest of his life? Is it okay to do this to his _fiancée_, of all people? She probably loves him as much as you do._ The tears broke lose, cascading down my face. Things began to cloud over for me, too, a thin cloud of film seemingly covering my eyes and a thick liquid building up in the back of my mouth, making it difficult to speak.

I waited. No sounds filled the air except for my ragged breathing and his even, careful breathing. I knew it wouldn't be much longer until both of us closed our eyes and forgot about all of this until….until when? We wouldn't remember anything in the morning; the drink we had tonight would disable our memories of tonight and hide them from us forever. I sighed.

_ I guess its better that he won't remember this in the morning. Maybe I can forget about him, too, after tonight._

I closed my eyes, still waiting for his answer, my face facing his, staring at his face expectantly when I realized he wouldn't say anything more—he was out cold.

_ What an appropriate climax—the one time I get the guts to tell him, he passes out. Yet, all the times I didn't tell him, he was wide awake, ready to hear it._ I groaned, not caring who heard me in the huge apartment.

The last thoughts I had before the already dark apartment faded into oblivion were, _He's everything to you—why are you letting him go?_ A battle began to rage in my mind, trying to figure out why.

_ It's better for him—he can live in peace and whole-heartedly love his wife forever…_ Or will he change his mind after tonight?


	2. The Next Morning

The Next Morning (2)

I woke up looking straight into the sun's glare. I yawned and cuddled back up into the sheets.

_Wait. Where am I? Why am I not in my clothes from last night?_ "Oh my _GOD_!" I gasped and pulled the blankets higher to cover myself. Frightened, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, began to look around me at the room, my breathing slowing down as my eyes focused around me, and recognized it—it was his old apartment. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. I looked down and saw I was clothed in a simple, long, white t-shirt. I quietly got out of bed and turned around to make the bed back up when I heard someone enter the room.

I whipped around, barely catching my balance before one knee hit the ground, ready to pounce on the intruder. I looked down at the feet of the intruder, eyes traveling up his body, beginning to recognize the general shape when my eyes were swept down again as a tray crashed to the floor.

"I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, "I thought it was someone else, I saw where I was and what I was wearing and…" I stopped suddenly, my tone changing from apologetic to rising anger. "Where exactly are my clothes? When did we come here? What time is it?" questions began spewing from my mouth faster and faster, and suddenly he laughed.

"Relax," he said, laughter pouring from his lips, curved into a smile that could make my knees melt like fire put to wax. "Easy for you to say!" I almost shouted, "You're not the one who has no idea what happened in the past few hours and how she got into the clothes she's in now!" He took a step closer to me, barely missing the glass that had broken when the tray fell on the floor and took me into his arms, hugging me.

His expression changed from amusement to gentle understanding as he cooed quietly into my ear, "Relax, its ok. Don't take so much tension, it's only me." I hugged him back, tears running down my face and stinging my eyes.

It all came back to me: last night, telling him, his reaction—everything.

"Did anything...happen last night?" I said haltingly.

He shook his head, a confused expression clouding his face.

"Do you even _remember_ what happened last night?" I asked carefully.

"Hmmm… No not really, why?" he asked, confused.

"I don't either!" I said laughing, hopefully convincingly, although I was nervous. "What was the last thing you remember?" trying not to sound too interested.

"Until a few drinks, after that…. Damn. I shouldn't have drunk so much!" He said smiling. Shaking his head, "I kind of wanted to know how the night ended."

"Aw! Don't worry! It's ok!" I hugged him tight, "I'm sure it was fine, we both got home okay, right?" I said with a smile.

"Yeah that's true. Kind of strange that we went home together…." He stopped, rethinking what he had said earlier, "You don't think anything…?" His voice trailed off. I could sense worry in it but at the same time, I could have sworn I heard an eager edge to it, hoping that something did.

I laughed, and shook my head, "Yeah right! You're getting married, and I'm just a friend. And besides, why would I ever do something to come between you and your fiancée, my best friend's future wife?" My smile fell ever so slightly and the color drained out of my face. He noticed it.

"What's wrong? Are you ok? Can I get you something?" He stepped forward, his foot making contact with a small piece of glass. He ignored the pain in his foot as he held on to me and towards the bed to sit down on. I took a deep breath, not being able to fully comprehend what had happened. I remembered last night—the full impact of what I had said last night mixing with the nausea caused by the withdrawal of the alcohol from those drinks.

After I had assured him I was fine, taking a few deep breaths, I realized he was bleeding. I coaxed him to let me look at his foot, telling him that I was ok and that I wanted to make sure he was, too. I looked at the deep cut and told him not to move. I gently set his foot down on the bed and ran to the bathroom to get a towel from next to the sink, wetting it ever so slightly with water and finding the bandages and antiseptic in the medicine cabinet. I took care of him, bandaged his foot, made sure he wouldn't get up, and began to clean up the mess I had caused which was littering the floor—tea, fruits, and glass were strewn from the spot where the tray had dropped within a five foot radius. Despite his repeated discouragement and warnings to be careful and that I would hurt myself, I managed to clean it up, only getting a few cuts on my fingers. I walked carefully towards the bed, hoping I hadn't missed anything and began to fix my own wounds, when he grabbed my elbow as anger darkened his face.

"This is the perfect example of how you don't take care of yourself!" He bellowed. I smiled at that and gave my usual, pert reply—"Why don't _you_ try and take better care of _me,_ _for_ me?"

"Maybe I will," he said, his voice seemingly softening ever so slightly with only a hint of an edge to it, betraying more his worry about me rather than anger. _Maybe he does still care. Maybe I still have a chance._

After not receiving an answer last night, all I could do was to hope.


End file.
